in sickness and in health
by callitwhatyouwill77
Summary: August 1919, four months after Lavinia's death, four months before the new year, the spanish flu is still creating horror stories amid those in the village - it just so happens that Mary's case in amongst them.
1. Chapter 1

Lavinia's funeral had been four months ago now. Although they were out of mourning and everyone's spirits, including Matthew's, were brightened, there were still horror stories and deaths from the Spanish flu in the village. It didn't touch them at the big house, they were so cut off from the rowdy villagers and it seemed that they lived in their very own bubble of serenity. Things had gone back to their usual flow; the girls paid calls and went to dinners, they wrote to Sybil and went for walks in the grounds. Matthew continued his regular visits, going around the cottages and taking walks with Robert. The matters discussed at dinner were far from torrid, and instead they entertained more happy affairs and joyful prospects - the wedding on dear Sybil and the upcoming flower show. Their lives had slipped back to the peaceful safety they had enjoyed before the war and there wasn't a single one of them that wasn't glad for it.

It was an early hour of the morning when Matthew awoke to the telephone ringing downstairs. It must have been three or four in the morning when he slipped out of bed and padded to the entrance corridor and picked up the receiver. "Hello?" His voice, as he remembered it, had been groggy and sleep laced. His mind had hardly been pulled from his dreams. If it wasn't for the cold of the night he might not have woken up enough to hear the words from the other end of the line. It was fortunate that he did. For it was Robert.

"Matthew?" His reply had come hurried, barely a split second between it and Matthew's greeting.

"Robert? What on earth it is going on?" It certainly was an odd time to call, however it was the tone that caused Matthew's inquiry, he sounded panicked, like a man in desperation.

"It's Mary. She's not well, not well at all and we can't get hold of Clarkson." Matthew was certain he couldn't breathe.

"Oh, my god," His heart lodged in his mouth, "what do you think it is?" He dreaded the answer. The two words he couldn't bear for Robert to say also being the very same words he was sure he was about to hear.

"Every sign points towards another bout of the Spanish flu." The man sounded almost as fearful as Matthew felt.  
"I'll call upon the doctor's house. I'll ram the door down if I have to." Matthew dropped the telephone. It swung on its wire as he ran up the stairs to his room, donning his clothes before coming back down and sprinting out into the night with neither care nor thought to his own well-being.

He didn't need to knock the door down. He rang the bell but didn't wait for an answer and instead banged on the door continuously until it was opened. Clarkson agreed to come at once, and even if he hadn't he was sure Matthew would have dragged him against his will, so profound and acute were his panic and agitation.

Every second that Clarkson's car took to arrive at the house felt like an hour to Matthew. The two men got out together and were admitted by Carson who looked positively worn out yet also terrified due to the proceedings of the night. She had complained of a mere headache at dinner; although she had eaten very little she sat through the whole of it and only allowed Matthew to walk her to her room once the rest of the family had retired to the library. Of course, Matthew too had left her at her door- he could hardly go into her bedroom- on the promise that she would call Anna and go to bed to rest. He had never anticipated that it could escalate to something so monumental, none of them had, least of all in a matter of hours.

He was frantic. He had barely any memory of getting up the stairs and it seemed he never took breath the whole time- arriving in her room with air-less lungs, Clarkson following shortly afterwards. The whole family was there- Sybil's absence more plain than ever- gathered at her bedside with stony countenance and fearful expressions. They all wore dressing robes over their night gowns- or pyjamas in Robert's case and the bags under their eyes showed the sleep they were so deprived of. Matthew vaguely wondered who had alerted them to her sudden turn. But he didn't have time to ponder such trivialities as the wind was knocked out of him and his heart clenched when he laid eyes on Mary.

She was so pale, her pallid skin being ghost like in complexion, and there was a yellow tinge to her eyes. She was covered with sweat, even as Anna held a cold-water cloth to her forehead, and she writhed, groaning in pain and discomfort beneath her sheets. Her hands gripped at her sheets and she coughed deeply, causing her whole body to shake with the effort. Matthew was at a loss- just hours ago they were having dinner, she was laughing and smiling and talking, and now she was so very ill with the doctor checking her over as her family watched on in trepidation.

"It is indeed the Spanish flu." Clarkson said, face apprehensive. "But she is not yet at the worst stages and it may not happen, she could flush out the infection easily and her fever could break sooner rather than later."

"What will happen if it doesn't?" Edith asked him, her words scratching her dry throat as they were spoken.

"The longer she is ill, the weaker she will become. It will then be more likely for it to be fatal, im afraid you must prepare for the worst."

They were all in a state of complete shock. Clarkson had sent them all away from her bedside a side from Anna - despite Matthew's strong protest. And, none of them being able to face sleep instead they gathered in the library. Robert leaned against the mantel, clutching his drink so tightly his knuckles were white. Cora and Edith sat together, their stony silence and solemn features shared by one another. Matthew was numb and shaking with anxiety, his usually tender blue eyes stared hard at the ground so intensely it looked as though he was try to rip up the very foundation with telepathy.

"She'll be alright. Mary's always alright." Edith spoke, her unsure tone contradicting her words. Usually she would have spoken bitterly, an unkind undertone proving how badly the two of them go on, but this time she didn't and her sentence sook the comfort she herself needed. "Of course she will." Came Robert's equally as unsure reply. Even so, his powerful statement brought a little solace to the room. "You should go to bed Matthew," Cora said, taking pity on the poor boy who stood looking rather like he was going to be sick himself. Matthew gave her a weak, sad smile and spoke, voice hoarse, "we all should. But I don't believe any of us would get any sleep." He was right of course, and the room and it's occupants once again slipped into silence- their thoughts and worried screaming inside themselves.

Despite the roaring fire, Matthew was certain the room was freezing, but it became much colder- a shiver rolling down his spine- when they heard hurried footsteps on the stairs and the door opened to show a particularly out of breath Anna. They all sucked in a deep breath, hearts beating erratically and near to bursting from the confines of their chests.

"Mr Crawley, she's asked for you." Matthew stared, disbelieving.

"Is she conscious?" Robert asked, hope evident.

"No, your Lordship, not exactly. She's mumbling, mostly incoherently, but she's called for Mr Crawley more than once." Anna told them, looking weary.

Matthew shot a look at Robert, begging for permission to go up. To his relief, the man nodded and Matthew went with Anna to sit at Mary's bedside.

"Mary, my darling, I'm here." He whispered, taking her hand and squeezing it in his. She was breathing rapidly and it was clear she had very little knowledge, if any, of what was going on around her- her eyes were closed and her long dark braid lay over her unsteady chest. But he was sure he felt her squeeze his hand back. "It's alright. You're perfectly alright." He knelt on the floor beside her head moving her stray hairs away from her sweat covered face with gentle strokes of his cool palm. She leaned up into him slightly and Matthew smiled, pulling up a chair next to her head and taking the cloth from the basin, wringing it out and wiping her forehead to help bring down her temperature.

"You should go to bed Anna, you must be tired." Matthew said, seeing her yawn out of the corner of his eye.  
"I'd like to stay with her…" She said, her voice drowsy.  
"I know, but you must be so worn out already, lack of sleep is the last thing you need at the moment; how is Mr Bates?" Matthew's tone was kindly, like he was sympathetic to what she wanted but also that he knew what was best for her. "Terrified. But not half as terrified as I am. And now this…" Anna gestured to Mary's ill form, lying still under the sheets, and knew it was the cherry on top of her momentous troubles. "Please Anna, get some rest," he said, "you need it more than I do."  
"You promise you'll wake me if there's any change?"  
"Of course, if you wish."  
"Thank you sir, and goodnight." She said, curtsying before leaving the room.  
"Goodnight Anna," Matthew said, turning back to re-soak and replace the cloth.

It was a long night- to say the least. The others drifted in and out throughout the day just as Matthew drifted in and out of consciousness. Edith tried to get him to retire to bed, Cora tried to get him to eat something, it was only Robert who knew exactly what he was going through – after all, only months ago it was Cora who was in Mary's place. Matthew's jacket lay discarded on the floor with his waistcoat. He hadn't bothered with a tie that morning, much to Violet's distaste, and his cuffs were undone, sleeves rolled up above his elbows. He only ever let go of Mary's hand to replace the basin of water or turn the page in the book he was reading to her.

Isobel came with Clarkson in the afternoon, seeing that Mary's symptoms had not escalated both marked it as a good sign, and Carson came up briefly before dinner, dropping a small paper bag containing a dozen pear drops on her bedside table. They had been her favourites since childhood.

"I'll stay with her while you go to dinner," Isobel told her son. Matthew shook his head defiantly,  
"No, I'll stay."  
"Matthew, you've been very good, but I insist you eat something or you'll waste away." Cora's voice came from the open door and, looking up to meet her eye, Matthew knew there was no point in challenging her. "I'm not dressed for dinner, Cousin Violet…"  
"Given the circumstances I'm sure she'll understand." Cora said, waiting for Matthew to join her before they left together to go to the dining room.

They all relaxed somewhat over dinner; their bodies simply tired from worrying so intensely for so long. They kept conversation light, small talk about the weather and the estate and the teams for the upcoming cricket match. Violet made sour remarks about Matthew's state of dress- or rather undress as she so poetically put it- and they all laughed as she accused him of looking not dissimilar to the man from the prudential.

They were beginning to have a good time until Isobel came in, calling for them.

"She's taken a turn for the worse." She said, hands shaking.

This time, Matthew was sure he felt his heart thud to a stop.


	2. Chapter 2

It all seemed so very final. Clarkson had said there was nothing to be done, Isobel had agreed, the highly acclaimed knighted doctor Robert had hired from London had agreed, Sybil and Tom had sent a telegram announcing their departure from Ireland to come and stay, Violet was now as good as living at the big house- as was Matthew. Far from being left in the lurch on the edge of a precipice just clinging onto the void, as it had felt at the beginning of Mary's illness, it now felt as though they had all decided her fate and had gone about preparing very properly for the worst. But Mary, stubborn, strong willed, determined Mary simply wouldn't give in. Matthew wanted to scream at them all for giving up. Even though he knew she was doomed, her chances of survival being condemned by no fewer than three professionals, he wanted to curse at them all for believing she could not make it.

She'd been enduring what Clarkson had said was 'the worst' for nearly a day. The other doctor- one Matthew hadn't cared to learn the name of- had said she was currently suffering the final stages and it wouldn't be long now. She couldn't hold on for much longer. They had all been in agreement at that. Everyone traipsed in and out of her bedroom, visiting one at a time so they didn't overcrowd her, but Matthew had refused to leave point blank. He would not listen to anyone suggesting he should leave, not even when Violet had said- in an extremely uncharacteristically caring voice- that he should rest before he died of sleep deprivation. He wouldn't go, the very notion of leaving her in the state she was in was unimaginable- especially after she had asked him to stay.

* * *

Mary's nightdress clung to her sweat covered skin. She writhed, her body convulsing and jerking with each breath she could barely accomplish. The wheezing coming from her constricted chest petrified them all, but it was almost relieving to hear simply to prove she was still breathing. Waves of heart coursed through her blood and flamed under her skin, her lack of food made her rather skeletal in appearance and her whole body wracked with agonising pain. She mumbled and groaned, her meaning impossible to interpret and words almost utterly incoherent, making little to no sense; even so, Matthew kept talking to her, trying to keep her delirium under control by pretending he understood. He didn't enjoy lying to her- indeed he had always thought he never would- but he continued to tell her she was alright, that everything was alright, that she would be absolutely fine. He found himself wishing he believed his own sentiments.

Her stomach tightened and Matthew watched her struggle to swallow, her throat clenching as she tried to stop her body's responses. He knew what was happening, having been in her position before during that horrible first night after his war injury, and he pulled the bedpan from under her bed, Edith helping him turn her on her side as he held the bowl for her to wretch helplessly into.

He lay her back a moment later, a hacking cough taking over her as Matthew wiped her chin with his handkerchief and placed a cool cloth back to her forehead. Despite the panic threatening to burst from inside him and the sobbing on Edith and Cora from the other side of the bed, Matthew remained a relatively calm exterior – if the war had taught him anything it was how to face your worst nightmare with a brave face- and shut away his inner terror to lift a glass of water to Mary's lips, coaxing the liquid down her as best he could.

* * *

"It won't be much longer now," Clarkson observed, telling Robert gravely after they had all assembled once again in Mary's room. The other doctor solemnly approved. "Her immune system simply cannot keep it up. If her fever had broken…" He stopped, knowing they didn't need to hear. Cora wailed and Edith ran from the room. Isobel went swiftly after her, followed by Violet. Matthew closed his eyes, succumbing to tears for the first time since the whole affair had begun.

"Confusion will only make these last moments more painful for her," the doctor told them, "she's delirious and won't be aware of much around her, but overcrowding is a common stress for patients and it makes the passing… it makes if more traumatic for everyone involved." Nobody wanted to leave her, not now. Realising, with a horrible wrenching of his gut, that it would be the right thing to do to leave Mary with her parents, Matthew reluctantly forced himself to leave the chair by her head. He stood, leaning down to place a kiss to her burning forehead, and pulled his hand from her weakened grip.

Except her grip tightened- probably a reflex- and wouldn't let go. Mary wouldn't let go. After all, did any of them really think that in her last moments especially, Lady Mary Crawley would allow someone else to make decisions for her? She managed to wheeze out a demanding 'no' as she clutched at his hand and then a more soft, more quiet and distant, "stay…please."

Matthew's eyes sought out those of the remaining people in the room, all of whom nodded and made their grief stricken goodbyes before leaving. Clarkson gave Matthew a curt nod, and followed them out. Matthew was the only one left.

"You're going to be alright, my darling. You're going to be alright," he lied, "don't you worry about anything." He could no longer keep the dread or fear from his voice- the very prospect of what would happen something that haunted his every nightmare and would surely do so forevermore. He'd have to watch the light leave her eyes, listen to the last breath leave her body and feel as she slacked her grip on his trembling hand. He'd see her chest stop moving and be with her when her pulse stopped and her heart ceased to beat the blood through her body. And he was petrified.

It was fair to say that Matthew wasn't in his right mind. A side from the extreme lack of sleep, food, water and fresh air, the personal distress he was having to undergo was one that would render anyone traumatised. Watching the person you love most in the world die was an experience that no one got through- not properly. It was certainly torture for Matthew. He leaned over Mary's ill body and whispered nonsensical words to her, stroking the hair from her face. Everything was repeated, action after action, everything he could to do the best he could. He leant his head on the bed frame as he continually stroked her forehead, closing his eyes and thinking how he'd have given anything to take her pain away in that moment. Given the chance, he would have taken her place in an instant without a single thought; he'd give up everything for her to be without pain. He'd go back to war to save her life, he'd be blown apart, beaten, left for dead in the centre of no mans land just to have her raise her eyebrows at him.

* * *

The day of the funeral had been a myriad of pain and tangled morbid emotions for everyone. Everything was so mangled in his mind all events had lumped together into a parasite that ate away mercilessly at them all. Nothing made sense. There had been so many young deaths during the war and although the people they knew that had had died before their time came in abundance the concept and feelings entangled with death was still so foreign. Mary was underneath them now, Matthew's heart buried with her. He was impervious to pain now- or perhaps that was all he felt- and he couldn't bring himself to care about the black hole that swept him up as he stared blankly at the engraved stone. The letters spelling out the name Mary Josephine Crawley forever emblazoned at the forefront of his brain.

"Matthew?"

He refused to listen, he wouldn't come away.

"Matthew?"

* * *

His head ached from the uncomfortable feeling of the bedpost pressing into his skull. He opened his eyes, blinked, then jumped awake. The very last thing he had expected to see, the thing he never allowed himself to imagine over the last few days for fear of only making the impossible more difficult. Mary looked up at him, her brown eyes half open and her voice bleary as it scratched away from her throat mumbling his name, fearfully.

"Matthew?...is... is that you?" She breathed, trying to focus on the moving shape above her. "What's going on? I...don't... know... what's happening. What's happening?" Her words were slow, slurred and sloppy but they were laced with panic and fear as she strained her eyes to focus to fathom where she was and what was happening. "It's alright, Mary. I'm here. I've got you. It's alright. You're quite, quite safe."

"I don't know what going on.. I.."

"It's alright, it's perfectly alright. There's nothing to worry about."

She grabbed his hand and squeezed it. Matthew smiled, squeezing her hand back and whispering to her- trying to sooth her to sleep. She needed to rest, her body was worn out, and although against all odds her fever had finally broken- or rather Mary had broken her fever- she wouldn't get better just like that. Rome wasn't built in a day.

* * *

a/n - hope to get the next chapter up soon


	3. Chapter 3

After a week in bed, drifting in and out of consciousness as she regained her strength, and another sentence from Doctor Clarkson confining her for yet another seven days for recuperation, it became abundantly clear that Mary was not an easy patient. She hated being given orders, being told what to do by those around her. She hated not being allowed to do anything or walk around the grounds or even just venture outside her bedroom. Visitors streamed in and out, Sybil came in a lot- having missed her eldest sister during her time in Ireland- but after a few days the visits died down slightly, giving Mary the impression that now she wasn't going to die people had simply forgotten about her. She was bored. She abhorred the nurse telling her when she should sleep and eat and that she wasn't supposed to read or sit up for long periods of time. She hated it most when she had finally got a visitor, most often Matthew having managed to persuade everyone to be allowed to see her, and then that visitor was sent away by the nurse in case she was 'over exerted'.

* * *

Sir Richard had rung from his office one night, inquiring if he might come down for a couple of days to discuss dates with his fiancé, and it had suddenly occurred to Robert, when he picked up the phone, that not once during Mary's sickness had they even thought about notifying her fiancé. His presence would have been more of a curse than a blessing, Robert couldn't imagine him being at all helpful and even less that his appearance would have been a comfort to his daughter in her sickness. The family at large felt privately glad that he had not called before now, meaning they hadn't had the obligation to inform him of Mary's disease. But now he was on his way, they'd have no choice but to tell him when he arrived and would just have to brace themselves for his inevitable company. Aside from the morbid dread of his arrival, things went on as normal, Mary complained about being bedridden and was only swayed from her irritable moods when Matthew came to read or talk to her.

"Perhaps, we should allow Matthew to sit with her more often." Cora proposed, having just come from her daughter's room having observed the immediate change in mood and demeanour once Matthew was granted time to read to her. It was like she completely forgot the current issue she'd been peeved about the second his head poked around the door. Cora had raised an eyebrow at the smile she wore when he had walked in, but neither of them had looked away from the other to even notice. "They are certainly becoming very close," Robert agreed, not sounding wholly disapproving- as if he was pleased for it despite himself. "I'm afraid it will be an unwelcome wakeup call when Sir Richard arrives." The uncharacteristic spite in Robert's voice as he uttered the name proved his disdain for the man- he so clearly got on Mary's nerves and he didn't understand why on earth she stuck with him.

He arrived the very same day that Mary had badgered Clarkson into letting her go outside for the first time in what seemed to her like years. "You must wrap up warm," Sybil had insisted, as Anna helped Mary on with her coat. "Perhaps you should take this as well Milady," Anna said pointedly, handing her a blanket-like shawl to wrap around her shoulders. "It's getting rather brisk, winter is certainly on its way."  
"Mary, are you sure? Is it completely wise to be going out when it's so cold?" Her mother questioned once again.  
"Will you all stop fussing? I've heard enough of it from Matthew!" She _had_ heard enough of it from Matthew, more than enough, he had insisted that someone go with her and that she was completely wrapped up from head to toe- he'd fretted and fussed and although he had agreed that she should take a walk to receive some fresh air, he had certainly back tracked a little since then becoming worried again. "Honestly, can I not even go for a walk on my own?" Mary was exasperated, but had eventually found the whole scene rather comical- her sisters and mother and Anna gathered in her room making sure she was alright _to go on a walk_. It was as if she was about to take part in a trek across Antarctica. "You're not going alone, are you?" he mother sounded positively fearful at the prospect. "Really Mama, it is not as if I haven't walked across the garden alone before." Mary rolled her eyes- her health may have taken a recent bashing but her attitude had certainly not. "But no, I am not going alone. Matthew has kindly agreed to walk with me." The other occupants visibly relaxed at her statement. "Apparently, he too, is under the impression I might suffer some fateful relapse and fall and kill myself." Mary laughed, eyeing the others sharply, as if to prove it was such a ridiculous notion.

* * *

"How are you feeling?" Matthew asked her, they were just within sight of the house, walking past Jackdaw's castle arm in arm. "Truthfully," he added. Mary pondered his question, thinking about the period of illness that she could barely remember. "I'm not quite back to normal, but I suppose that's to be expected," she paused, "I can't really remember much, only that I was in so much pain and I didn't know what was happening- or where I was- other than that you were there the whole time." Her eyes were cast decidedly away from him. "So I suppose I must say grateful. I'm terribly, terribly grateful for all you did. For holding my hand and being there- and for all the other unimaginable atrocities I must have put you through…" She mumbled the last sentence, barely wanting to think of the state she'd been in and what he'd sat through for her. "It's the least I could do, especially after everything you did for me. It was nothing, really." Matthew didn't really know how to put it- the fact that he would not have been- could not have been- anywhere else but with her; that he had wished every second to take her pain away and simply wanted to do his best to help.

"I once said that to your mother, after you came back, so I think I understand what you mean- it's not nothing, per say, there's just nothing else."

They continued to walk, discussing other- more pleasant- topics such as the upcoming festivities and the flower show a few months prior. It was a beautiful day, cold, as was in October, but beautiful all the same. They ventured to the small wooden deck, looking over the lake and talking some more. Quite improperly, and all of a sudden, Mary sat down at the edge, swinging her feet over the water like she did as a child. She pulled Matthew down with her and they sat in silence for a short while before she suggested he read- seeing the copy of wind in the willows poking out from his waistcoat pocket underneath his coat.

It was at the mention of Toad of Toad hall that confused Matthew. Mary muttered something wistfully about Edith and Granny and then her giggles escalated into fully formed laughter. He could help but grin widely at the sight of her looking so happy and free- much better than he'd seen her in a while even before her illness when a dark cloud had hung over her- perhaps it was their strained friendship or the omnipresence of Sir Richard- whatever it was she had forgotten it in that moment. She leant forward with laughter, eyes bright and blissfully happy.

Matthew's smile fell from his face when she leaned a little too far and fell forward into the lake. Matthew panicked, seeing her submerge, and in a second he threw off his coat and jumped in after her. She emerged, gasping for breath and looking around for him, surprised to see him also in the water. Matthew took hold of her, dragging her toward the nearest bank. Her hair had fallen from its neatly fixed bun and Matthew's had darkened in the water and was currently sticking up in all directions. They stood up on the mud, shivering violently and moving as fast as their shaking limbs would allow out of the water. Mary's teeth chattered, water dripped down her face and her clothes stuck to her. Matthew ran over to the deck, picking up his coat and returning to her. He removed her soaking coat and shawl, tossing them both a side, and wrapped his own dry one around her shoulders. "Are you alright?" he gasped, wrapping his arms around her. Mary nodded against him and Matthew leaned back, fearful when he felt her shaking far more than mere shivering in his arms. To his surprise, she was laughing, pressing her lips together and looking up at him with her brown eyes wide and childishly innocent and amused. "Toad of toad hall," she muttered, chuckling in spite of the cold. Matthew joined her, their situation too comical to keep a straight face. He wrapped a sopping arm around her shoulders and they ventured back to the house, seeking warm clothes and a roaring fire and possibly a cup of tea.

They were still laughing when they reached the threshold of the entrance, neither noticing that Sir Richard had watched their walk back from the grounds from the library window, stony countenance and downcast expression in tow.

Mary was right, Matthew thought. She was in his arms, laughing with him over something completely ridiculous, their friendship intact, Christmas on its way and there really was nothing else.


End file.
